The Awkward Caballero
by IcyWaters
Summary: After Zorro falls from the bell tower, a limping Diego has some explaining to do to his father and a suspicious Capitán Monastario. The story we didn't see during the episode "The Ghost of the Mission." Based on the Walt Disney series.


Disclaimer: This story is based upon characters appearing in the Walt Disney Zorro television series. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made. I don't own 'em, I'm just a fan wanting to keep the spirit of a favorite show alive.

Author's Note: "The Ghost of the Mission" debuted October 31, 1957. In honor of the 57th Anniversary of one of my favorite episodes, I present the story we didn't see during that original airing. I have done my best to fit these events into the episode; please forgive any discrepancies. As such, some scenes and dialogue are not mine. They belong to Norman Foster, one of the many brilliant writers on the show.

My thanks go out to Inuvik, who inspired this idea and encouraged me to pursue it, and to miXiZ for proofreading.

* * *

><p><span><strong>The Awkward Caballero<strong>

by  
>IcyWaters<p>

"Guard, I want you to watch that door to the church carefully." Capitán Monastario flourished his gloved hand for emphasis, still clutching the apple he confiscated only moments ago from Padre Felipe. "I suspect Torres may try to escape tonight. If he does, give him no quarter."

The guard saluted and Monastario left him to the task. Savoring the sweet taste of the crisp and juicy fruit—Padre Felipe cultivated the finest apples in the district—he exited the main building of the Mission San Gabriel into the fresh night air. Sergeant Garcia immediately straightened against the column, looking every inch like a child caught with his hand in his mother's cookie jar.

The capitán firmed his jaw. "Sergeant, I warned you about dozing on duty."

"But, Capitán," Garcia spluttered, "I explained before that I am just waiting for Private Ortega."

"Capitán, Capitán," a hushed whisper called out. The guard from moments ago rushed from the church, providing a much-needed rescue for the plump sergeant.

Monastario shot Garcia a reproachful glare before turning to the voice. "What is it, Private?"

"Zorro is inside."

Monastario's eyes glittered. "Are you certain?"

"Sí, I caught sight of the cape as he disappeared up the stairs."

"No doubt he is taking food and water to the traitor Torres." Monastario tossed the apple core into the shrubs and motioned to the private. "Come with me. Sergeant, remain here—and stay awake this time!" The two men entered the building where the capitán commandeered a pair of sentries to join in the foxhunt.

Monastario kept his voice low when he asked, "Where did you last see him?"

The guard indicated the staircase to their right. Capitán Monastario led his men along the narrow corridor to the sanctuary. Hushed tones reached his ears. His pace accelerated. There amid the pews, he witnessed the masked bandit conferring with Torres. "Zorro!" he exclaimed, drawing his sword and charging the aisle. Startled, the fox's head spun to face the advancing soldiers.

"Escape while you can," Nacho urged. His friend obliged.

"I will take this." Monastario seized the saddlebag from the traitor. "Here," he thrust it into the arms of the nearest private, "Guard him." With Torres secured, he chased the vermin up the bell tower, two lancers close behind. When they reached the top of the steps, he scanned the tight space for his nemesis.

Monastario's gaze landed on the taut length of rope extending out the open window. Creeping closer, he spied the black figure rappelling down the wall. A wild gleam in his eyes, the capitán hacked at the lifeline with his blade. Again and again, he slashed at the fibers until it finally ripped apart. He nearly laughed as Zorro plunged over twenty-five feet to the ground below.

"Sergeant Garcia, he has dropped into the cemetery. Capture him!"

Monastario raced to the bottom of the stairs and toward the graveyard. Confident there was no escape for the masker, that he would hang the fox as soon as the gallows went up, he watched in horror as Garcia and his lancers stumbled out the gate into an ungainly heap.

"Babosos! Idiotas! Estúpidos!" Monastario seethed with anger. "Zorro has outwitted you again!"

An all too familiar taunting laugh echoed in the night air. Monastario searched the shadows for its owner. The black stallion reared on its hind legs and that blasted bandit waved in their direction.

His sworn enemy would not win again. Not as long as Monastario's blood still pumped through his veins. "Garcia, stay here with the guards. Lancers, to horse!"

* * *

><p>Satisfied they eluded the soldiers on their trail, Zorro steered Tornado home. An empty cave greeted horse and rider when they wove through the vine-covered entrance. Only the soft glow of a lantern provided any light. The fox swung a leg over the animal's neck and slipped to the ground. A wave of pain radiated from his ankle. He stumbled, an oath escaping his lips, and shifted the bulk of his weight on his left leg.<p>

Tornado nudged his master in the chest.

"Gracias, I am fine, mi amigo." He rubbed the stallion's nose. "I will send Bernardo to take care of you, eh? He will bring your favorite, a green apple."

Tornado's head bobbed in approval. With a chuckle, Zorro began hobbling the length of the passage to the secret room adjacent to his quarters. Shrill guitar notes filled the air. Diego cringed when he heard Bernardo finger the wrong chord yet again. Concerned his father might be close to erupting like a volcano from listening to the atrocious music, he hurried to change into the clothes of a caballero.

Grabbing the blue jacket from the hook, he grasped the iron ring to activate the hidden wall panel. His father did not disappoint. Diego smiled when Alejandro's voice, accompanied by heavy pounding on the door, greeted him from the veranda outside.

"Diego!"

Exhaling a breath of relief, Bernardo stopped strumming. The pounding ceased in turn.

"Diego, what is the matter with you? Unlock the door."

"Yes, Father." He exchanged his jacket for the guitar and motioned for his friend to hide. Bernardo crouched on the floor next to the bed. With the coast clear, he adopted the façade of a bored poet to face his father. After Diego finally calmed the older man down, he bid him goodnight and shut the door.

Bernardo rose to his feet as Diego leaned an elbow on the bedpost. "That was close, eh?"

The mute's hands fluttered over his chest as if to reply, 'Too close.'

Diego passed him the instrument and hobbled to sit on the edge of the bed. Bernardo watched in curiosity. He set the guitar in the corner and traced a 'Z' in the air as Diego propped his tender ankle on the mattress, not bothering to remove his boot.

"Yes, Zorro rode to the mission tonight on his errand of mercy, but Monastario won."

Bernardo's eyes grew large with fear.

"There were too many soldiers. They nearly caught me. Poor Don Nacho is going to have to suffer a while longer."

Shifting from leg to leg, feigning a limp, Bernardo studied him with a concerned expression.

"Do not worry, my friend. It is not serious. I may have twisted my ankle. It is fortunate that is all that befell me tonight. Take care of Tornado, por favor, and then you can have a look at it."

Before departing for the secret passage, Bernardo fawned over Diego like a mother hen, fluffing the pillows behind the amused face.

"Gracias."

A short time later, Bernardo returned, balancing an assortment of medical supplies in his arms. As he arranged them on the nightstand, he was surprised to find Diego resting with his eyes closed. Shrugging, he moved to tug off the boot as gently as he could, eliciting a soft laugh.

"My mother would give me an earful if she saw me like this. She used to say my father and I had the manners of boars, tracking dirt all over her clean hacienda."

Bernardo smiled and continued the task while Diego explained what happened.

"I had to flee the soldiers by way of the bell tower. Monastario cut the rope I was using. Fortunately, I don't think he realized I was injured in the fall." Suddenly, a horrid smell assailed Diego's nose, forcing him upright. "Madre de Dios, what is that?"

Shoulders bouncing with amusement, Bernardo indicated it was to help with the swelling.

"It had better keep the swelling down, my friend, or I will give you a bath in it."

The playful threat met with an equally playful pout. Once the smelly concoction smothered his skin and clean bandages encased his ankle, Diego swung his other leg on top the mattress. Bernardo shook a disapproving finger.

"Now you sound like my mother." Diego winked, tossing him the matching boot. "How bad is it? I was able to bear some weight on it briefly, enough to make it the length of the passage."

Bernardo snapped an imaginary stick and shook his head.

"You do not think it is broken, only a mild sprain. Good. I am hoping that if I keep off it tomorrow, I will be as good as new when the sun sets. Zorro cannot afford to take a night off."

His words met with a frown.

"Don Nacho will not survive much longer without food or water." To appease his friend, Diego added, "If Zorro must ride, perhaps we can wrap it tightly to stabilize my ankle and prevent further injury."

Sighing, Bernardo offered an indecisive nod.

Diego drummed his fist on his thigh. "Since I am in no condition to outrun the soldiers or engage Monastario with the blade, the fox must use his wits next time, not his fangs."

Bernardo smiled, pointing to his temple.

"Good, you have a plan. Let's hear it."

The mute's eyebrows shot up, triggering a hearty laugh from the caballero.

* * *

><p>"Come on, Sergeant, make up your mind," Private Sanchez pleaded. "This is getting heavy."<p>

"Sí," Private Ortega grunted, struggling for a better grip on his end.

"Do not rush me." Sergeant Garcia, squinting against the bright morning sun, surveyed the lush Mission San Gabriel grounds and pointed to a location by the orchard. "You may set it over there."

Sanchez and Ortega lugged the large, ornate desk the army confiscated from the church to the other side of the courtyard. Private Rodriguez trailed behind with the matching chair. Once in place, Garcia took a seat and shook his head. "No, this will never do. There are bees by the flowers. The commandante will blame me if he gets stung."

A chorus of groans resounded.

"What was wrong with the second spot? The one by the road?" Sanchez asked.

Ortega nodded. "There were no bees there."

"I explained this to you before," Garcia replied. "There was too much dust and too little privacy. The commandante chased Zorro all night and failed to catch him. Somehow, it is all my fault. Now he wants a place to inspect visitors. If he is not comfortable, it will be all my fault again. He is in an irritable mood today."

"He is in an irritable mood every day," Ortega quipped.

"Shh," Garcia said, motioning for them to keep their voices down. "I've got it. We shall put it under the big pepper tree. That way, the commandante will have shade."

"We?" Ortega repeated.

Sanchez massaged his hands. "I cannot carry this any farther."

"Fine, I will help." Garcia sent Rodriguez to fetch Privates Ibarra and Delgado. With the might of four soldiers, two on either side of the large desk, and the sergeant's supervision, they began hauling it to the far end of the mission grounds where the big pepper tree grew. They were less than ten feet from their destination when a familiar voice caused them to nearly drop their burden.

"What are you doing, Sergeant?"

Garcia turned to find Monastario staring at him incredulously. "I am following your orders, Capitán."

"My orders were to set up a post to inspect visitors, not to cart a desk around the premises. And you were to have accomplished this an hour ago." Monastario's eyes narrowed. "Where did you get that?"

"We, uh, borrowed it from Padre Felipe."

"Baboso, you were supposed to use a simple table and chair. While you six idiotas waste time here, who is keeping watch on Torres? Return the desk at once and get back to your posts."

"Sí, mi Capitán." Garcia motioned for the privates to get the furniture out of Monastario's sight. "I only wanted for you to be comfortable, mi Capitán."

"I am surrounded by incompetence," Monastario muttered. "Since we are on the subject of my comfort, you are to ride to the cuartel and gather a few of my private belongings." He pulled a folded sheet of parchment from his jacket. "Here is a list."

"Sí, mi Capitán."

Monastario stepped closer. "Do not get distracted at the tavern."

"Oh, no, of course not, mi Capitán. The mission's food and wine are excellent—and free." The low growl emanating from his superior's throat told Garcia he said the wrong thing again. He snatched the list, saluted and made for his horse.

A short time later, the sergeant arrived at the cuartel. He stood hesitantly in the bedroom. It felt strange to be in the commandante's quarters without the commandante present. Garcia shoved a fresh uniform into a saddlebag, along with personal items like the razor.

The next items perplexed Garcia. He fumbled through drawers and cabinets until he found the bar of soap that smelled like peppermint and the bottle of soap made just for hair. Why did a man need so many soaps? And one intended only for hair? Garcia used whatever the army provided. It got the job done.

Then there was the small jar of sticky wax called pomade.

Garcia chuckled. Capitán Monastario sure liked to look and smell pretty. Curiosity got the better of him. He knew Don Diego used this, too. After peering into the office to ensure he was alone, he unscrewed the lid, dipped his fingers inside and put a little in his hair. Garcia looked at his reflection in the mirror and shrugged. He did not see any difference. Now his fingers were all sticky and he had to wash them.

Into the saddlebag the pomade went.

One last item remained on the list. Garcia scratched his head. What did bath salts look like? More sticky fingers and another hand washing resulted. That must be why Monastario required special soap for his hair.

Hands clean, he again fumbled through the capitán's personal effects until he came across a fancy bottle. He removed the cork. It was filled with sweet smelling granules that looked like salt.

"Don Diego would like this," he said to himself.

The pleasant aroma tickled his nostrils as he replaced the cork. Garcia tested the weight in his hand; an impish smile played out on his chubby cheeks. The bottle was three-quarters full. It was highly unlikely for a busy and important man like Monastario to notice a little missing. He searched around, but failed to find an empty bottle.

"Too bad, I bet this would make my skin as soft as a baby's. The señoritas might flirt with me then."

* * *

><p>Don Alejandro tethered Everardo outside his hacienda and strode through the front gate. He slowed his pace while crossing the sala and checked his pocket watch. The hands had not yet struck noon; at this hour, his son was likely still tucked into the comfort of his bed. Reversing course, he climbed the stairs.<p>

It would be one thing if Diego slept the day away because he was out serenading señoritas all night and carrying out other escapades befitting a caballero. But, no, his son aspired to be a poet. A poet!

"Diego," he called out, knocking on the door. "Diego."

Failing to elicit a response, Alejandro grasped the knob, half-expecting to find it locked. It was another change he struggled to understand. As a young boy, Diego never bolted his quarters. In the weeks since his only child returned home from Spain, his elation turned to sorrow; he often felt as if he were living with a stranger. Why Diego suddenly developed a need to shroud his life in secrecy was the most recent in a long line of questions the father asked himself on an almost daily basis.

To his surprise, the knob turned.

"Diego. Diego…" The name died on his lips when he encountered his son's empty and freshly made bed. "Now where have you disappeared to?" He heaved a sigh and descended the stairs.

"Diego," he reiterated, entering the unoccupied sala. He could not even summon Bernardo since the servant could neither speak nor hear. How the two men managed to communicate so well was yet another of the questions on Alejandro's ever-expanding list.

"Where are you?"

On his return from tending to the cattle, Alejandro rode past the stables. Fortunado munched on grass in the paddock, so the boy could not have strayed far. His eyes took aim on the library. "Diego," he called out again, thrusting the door open. His son's body jolted in the same instant his head snapped up from the book in which he buried his nose.

"Have you gone deaf as Bernardo, mi hijo? Did you not hear me calling for you?" Alejandro narrowed his eyes at the sight that greeted him. Diego sat on the couch with his boots propped on the coffee table. A tray of empty dishes rested on the cushion next to him.

"You were raised better than this. The furniture is not for your feet." He nudged the long legs to the floor. "Your mother would never let me hear the end of it if she witnessed this conduct."

"I am sorry, Father." Diego's cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Alejandro shook his head; since when did his son start acting so sheepish? "I must have been so caught up in this story that I did not hear you." He marked his spot and placed the book in his lap. "It is a tale of romance—"

Alejandro heaved yet another sigh and waved to cut off the forthcoming summary. "I would prefer you experience romance first hand rather than read about it in a book." He ran frustrated fingers through his silver hair. "Diego, I need you to ride into the pueblo and gather some supplies."

"But, Father, cannot Benito go in my place?"

"No, Benito cannot. For your information, two of our finest cows are in labor. One appears to be a breech birth. Benito has produced miracles before. He is the best equipped on the rancho to make certain both mother and calf survive. I will rejoin him shortly."

"What about one of the other workers?"

Alejandro inhaled a long, deep breath to soothe his raging temper. His son did not exhibit the least bit of concern in the affairs of the pueblo, including the plight of their close friend, Don Nacho Torres, and refused to show the slightest bit of interest in the running of the rancho. Was he truly content to waste his life on books and music?

"They are busy harvesting fruit before an overnight freeze ruins them and rounding up the herd for the auction in Santa Barbara."

His son frowned and traced a finger along the edges of the book, as if searching for another excuse.

"Diego," Alejandro bit his tongue, "I am not asking you to do much. You need only to make a short visit to the blacksmith for some hardware and then stop into see Carlos the merchant. He has an order of supplies waiting to be picked up."

When his son opened his mouth, Alejandro quickly put a stop to any argument. "You do not even have to break a sweat. Carlos will load everything into the wagon." His fingers curled into fists at his side. "Take Bernardo along if you wish. He can drive while you finish your book."

Diego rubbed the nape of his neck and crooked an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose when you put it that way, it might be rather enjoyable. Sí, I shall go on your behalf, Father."

The gall of the boy! First, he kept the hacienda awake all night with that dreadful guitar playing—he suspected Bernardo could do better—and now he acted as if he were doing his father an enormous favor. Alejandro felt his cheeks flushing with rage, so he spun on his heels and marched toward Everardo before he spouted off words he would later regret.

* * *

><p>Finished with the task, Garcia slung the saddlebag over his mount. On his ride out of the pueblo, he passed the blacksmith's shop. Don Diego's quiet mozo loaded a box onto a wagon parked in front.<p>

"Hola, little one, is your master with you?"

Bernardo wiped his palms and raised his head. His expression lit up and he waved at the soldier astride the horse. Garcia wiggled his fingers in return. Bernardo was a polite little fellow.

The blacksmith's voice reached beyond the forge. "I am sorry to be of trouble to you, Señor de la Vega."

"It is no trouble, Salvio," Diego replied, his back appearing at the shadowy entrance. "My father will be pleased with the work you are doing. Adiós."

"Buenos días, Don Diego," Garcia greeted after their business concluded.

The caballero tensed, but offered a cheerful smile as he turned. "Buenos días, Sergeant." He stood unmoving in the warm sun while Bernardo slid on the bench and took the reins. An awkward silence descended between them. Don Diego continued to smile, although it was more sheepish now. "It is a lovely day, is it not?"

"Sí. Please do not let me keep you, Don Diego." Garcia's eyes narrowed; the young man walked to the wagon with a slight limp and had some difficulty climbing on. "Are you hurt, Don Diego?"

"Oh, it is nothing."

"It looks like your leg is bothering you."

"I assure you I am fine, Sergeant. It's all rather embarrassing really." Don Diego fiddled with the book in his lap. "Since you are in the pueblo, does that mean the army has finally apprehended Don Nacho?"

"No, he still claims sanctuary. The commandante sent me to the cuartel to fetch a few of his effects."

"Ah, well, when this insufferable affair is over, you must join me in the tavern for refreshments."

Garcia beamed. "Gracias, Don Diego, gracias!"

They exchanged goodbyes and the happy sergeant rode to the mission with renewed spirits. It was good to have Don Diego back home. He no sooner arrived at his destination than the capitán pounced.

"It is about time, Sergeant." Monastario seized the saddlebag. "If I find you stopped at the tavern—"

"Oh, no, I only talked a few minutes with Don Diego. It is a shame he is hurt."

Monastario snorted while he checked his belongings. "What did he do, fall out of bed?"

"That might explain how he hurt his leg."

"I am going to freshen up and get some sleep after chasing that masked menace all night. You are to inspect each person coming and going from the mission. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sí, mi Capitán."

"If Nacho Torres escapes or obtains food and water—" Monastario paused, his eyes narrowing. "Did you say de la Vega injured his leg?"

"Sí, he was limping."

"How did he obtain this injury?"

"He did not say, but he was very embarrassed by it."

"It can't be," Monastario whispered, his mind reeling. Zorro plunged more than twenty-five feet from the bell tower onto hard, frost-covered ground. His enemy was not a ghost like the Indians alleged; he was a flesh and blood thorn who likely suffered an injury. Why did he fail to consider this before?

"What can't be?" Garcia asked.

But de la Vega?

It was preposterous. Surely, that dandy was not Zorro; however, Diego did appear anxious when Monastario surprised him at his home with the mask and cape. As crazy as it sounded, he refused to let the prospect of capturing the fox slip from his fingers. "Where is de la Vega now?"

Garcia shrugged. "Don Diego said he had to visit Carlos the merchant. He is probably on his way to the hacienda now, if he has not already arrived."

Monastario shoved the saddlebag into Garcia's arms. "Stow this in my quarters, get my horse and prepare to ride."

* * *

><p>The kitchen was the first stop when Don Alejandro returned to his hacienda. He planned to spend the rest of the day in the pasture with his vaqueros, so he instructed his housekeeper, Cresencia, to prepare enough food to sustain them through the evening. While conferring with her, Bernardo appeared, smiled at them both, and began putting together a tray of fruit and wine.<p>

After failing to communicate with the deaf mute, Alejandro settled on following him to the rear patio. Once again, he found Diego with his nose in a book. This time the aspiring poet was sprawled on the chaise lounge. "Have you been to the pueblo as I asked, mi hijo?"

"Sí, Father, the wagon is full and parked near the stables. Salvio and Carlos send their regards."

"Unload the items intended for the hacienda, but keep what we need for the births—the new calf puller, head snare, salves, brushes, towels—you know what is required. Cresencia is heating water. Fill up as many buckets as you can and secure them on the bed."

Diego ate a few grapes and signed to Bernardo to take away some of the boxes and fetch buckets.

"No, mi hijo, you are to do it."

"But, Father, I am otherwise occupied."

Alejandro inhaled sharply, his temper threatening to erupt at any second, and glared at his offspring, daring him to argue. "I will not repeat myself, Diego."

The boy heaved a sigh and nodded. "Very well, Father."

He had the nerve to do it again—acting as if he were doing his father an enormous favor! Fingers curling into fists at his side, Alejandro pivoted on his heels and left. He cut through the sala with anger burning the tip of his tongue. His son seemed content to put him in an early grave. Well, it would do the boy good to get some dirt on his pristine skin.

Mumbling curses under his breath, he made for the gate where he would find a servant to care for Everardo since he intended drive the wagon. As much as he wanted his son to join him, he knew it to be a fruitless endeavor. A wave of sadness dulled his fury. Where did he go wrong?

A thunder of hooves halted on the other side of the wall. Alejandro slowed his pace on the patio, curious to the source of the commotion. Only one vaquero would ride to alert him of a change. The gate opened. Alejandro groaned. "To what do I owe the displeasure of your visit, Capitán?"

"Buenos días to you, too, Don Alejandro. Where is your son?"

Sergeant Garcia followed Monastario in while two more lancers remained with the horses. He stood sheepishly behind his superior, hat in hand, offering the hacendado a polite nod.

"Diego? He is tending to chores for me. Why do you ask?"

Monastario arched an eyebrow. "He is able to perform physical labor with his injury?" There was a derisive tone to the inquiry; Alejandro fought to let the affront slide.

"As usual, you fail to make sense, Capitán. My son is not injured."

"Sergeant Garcia witnessed your son limping in the pueblo this afternoon," Monastario explained. "Last night, the masked bandit calling himself Zorro fell a considerable distance down the Mission San Gabriel bell tower. Now your son is limping. I demand to see him."

Alejandro struggled to understand. What was this about Diego being hurt? Why would his son hide an injury from his father? Come to think of it, he had not seen Diego on his feet today.

"Don Diego? Zorro?" Garcia burst out in laughter. "That is funny, mi Capitán."

"Silence, baboso." Monastario stepped forward. "Now, Don Alejandro, where is Diego?"

"You have finally gone mad, Capitán, if you think my son is this Zorro." Even as Alejandro said the words, he wondered if there was any truth behind it. Whoever this Zorro was, he rode to help his dear friend Nacho. The man had the courage of a true caballero, the type of courage his son once exhibited. However, he shrugged the notion off as the dreams of an old man.

"Produce your son, Don Alejandro, or I will arrest you for impeding an official investigation."

Just then, Diego appeared in the hacienda's doorway, a book in his hand. "What is all this tumult? I can hear you clear inside the house."

Monastario grinned. "Please join us, Diego."

Alejandro observed his son favoring his left leg as he walked. His heart skipped a beat. "Diego, my son, are you hurt?"

Diego blushed. "It is nothing, Father."

"We shall see about that," Monastario said. "How pray tell did you come to harm?"

"Capitán Monastario believes you are Zorro." Alejandro watched his son closely and glimpsed a spark of concern. It disappeared so fast he might have chalked it up to his imagination, but then the corner of his son's lips twitched almost imperceptibly, and a spark of mischievousness glinted in his eye. Again, it was gone in a blink. Alejandro knew he didn't imagine it—he recognized that look. His little boy used to exhibit that same face before embarking on one of his adventures, rousing a mix of delight and unease in his father.

"Me Zorro?" Diego chuckled. "I'm actually rather flattered. Elena says he is a dashing rogue."

"Never mind that," Monastario said. "I await an explanation."

Diego studied the ground and tugged his ear. "It's all really embarrassing."

Monastario crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm listening."

"Well, you see, I am reading William Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_. It is a tragic tale of star-crossed lovers—"

"I am familiar with it," Monastario interrupted.

"During Act I, Scene I—that is where Tybalt engages in an exhilarating swordfight—I was reminded of when my literature professor at the university encouraged us to attend a performance of the play at the theater. Have you been to the theater house in Madrid, Capitán? Lovely architecture."

Monastario rolled his eyes. "Get on with it."

"I, uh, well," Diego cleared his throat, "I attempted to reenact the scene this morning after I awoke. Only the theater actors did not have to trouble themselves about carpet…"

"What are you trying to say, Diego?" Alejandro inquired.

"I executed a textbook lunge, Father. You would have been very proud, only I slipped on the corner of the rug in my room." Diego's cheeks turned redder. "I twisted my ankle. I should have told you, but I was afraid you would get annoyed."

The story was ridiculous at best. Alejandro could not remember a day when his son, blessed with his mother's grace, was clumsy. Did Diego expect him to believe this drivel? Yet in the midst of the absurdity, answers to all his long simmering questions dangled in reach. With it came the fear that Monastario would hang the masked man if caught.

If his son was this Zorro, he vowed to do everything in his power to turn Monastario off the fox's scent. And should Alejandro be mistaken about his boy, this would at least permit him to blow off a little steam.

"By the saints, Diego, is there no end to the depths of humiliation you put me through? Do you have any idea the extent my friends will tease me if they learn of this?" Alejandro pinched the bridge of his nose. "Slipping on a rug while toying with a sword?"

Monastario watched Diego cower under his father's tirade. He almost pitied the dandy, but the foolishness he felt for even thinking Diego was the fox overpowered it. Zorro was too audacious to cower under anyone, even Don Alejandro de la Vega. Diego was too demure to confront a mouse. What a stupid idea!

"Did you cut yourself?" Alejandro asked with a hint of worry.

"No," Diego replied with new optimism, "I dropped the sword before I fell."

The old man let out a furious harrumph, spun and marched into the hacienda, muttering about how he refused to listen to this nonsense any further.

Diego raised his head. "Am I under arrest, Commandante? A night or two in jail sounds most appealing provided I may bring my own pillows. I doubt I will get any reading accomplished with my father in this mood."

Monastario growled and followed Alejandro's lead, only he marched to the horses. Outside the gate, he bore down on Garcia. "Baboso, if you ever suggest such an idiotic idea again—"

"Me? But it was not my idea, Commandante."

"Shut up, baboso, and get back to the mission. Torres had better be there."

Garcia sighed. "I know, otherwise it is all my fault."

Monastario's intense stare drifted to Garcia's hair. The sergeant felt the top of his head, blushed as he smoothed out the tuft sticking straight up and pulled on his hat before he got into more trouble. He smiled, certain guilt was visible on his face, and exhaled the breath he held when Monastario mounted without another word.

* * *

><p>Diego found Bernardo in the library. "I dodged a bullet thanks to my father's disappointment in me."<p>

Frowning, the mute shook his head.

"I am aware you do not approve, but it illustrates why I cannot tell him."

Diego perched on the edge of the desk. "It's imperative Zorro strike tonight to further draw a distinction between us. Unfortunately, this activity has not been good for my ankle. Continue with your horrendous smelling concoctions and bind it well, my friend."

Bernardo pointed to his temple.

"Sí, I have an idea." Diego's gaze traced to the scrolls piled on the table in the corner. He stood, hobbled over and traced a finger along the aged parchment. "I am reminded of stories the Natives told me as a child. Zorro is going to have a little supernatural help when he rides."

A curious face questioned him.

Mischievous delight twinkled in Diego's eyes. "Tell me, Bernardo," he said, placing an arm on his friend's shoulders, "have you ever heard of the Ghost of the Mad Monk?"

**The End**


End file.
